Carry You
by psquare
Summary: s8. Sam's sick from the Trials. Dean tries to help.


A quick little Trials!fic I wrote to distract myself from depressing RL things. I don't think I've written a proper Trials!fic before, (which is funny because sick!Sam is totally my jam)

**Warnings:** Set after 8.20: _Pac-Man Fever_, so SPOILERS till the same. Some swearing. Kinda depressing, IDK.

**_Carry You_**

Sam drains the last of his tea and peers in the cup. He squints, turns his head sideways. "Huh."

Dean snorts. He props his feet up on the table and tilts the glass of whiskey he's holding. "Aw, c'mon. You believe in that crap?"

"Was a time when we didn't believe in angels," Sam says mildly.

Dean rolls his eyes. "What do you see?"

"Impending death, apparently." Sam places the cup back on the table and stretches. God, he's so _tired_. "It's not exactly news." It seems like every one of his joints are popping, crackling under his skin.

"That's it?" Dean drains the last of his whiskey. "There really is no use that comes out of drinking tea, Sammy. I mean—the least it could do is show you the third Trial, or, I don't know, the name of the next girl desperate enough to sleep with you."

"Yeah, fuck off, Dean," Sam says without heat, getting up while Dean grins. "I'm going to turn in." He glances at his watch. "It's nearly one in the morning; you should probably get some rest, too."

"Are you kidding me? It's one in the _afternoon_, Sam."

A moment of sharp panic brings the syrupy-slow world into focus. "_What_?"

"Dude, your face!" Dean laughs. "Just messin' with you, man. Go to bed. Maybe when you wake up tomorrow you'll look a little more human."

Sam shakes his head and carefully picks his way back to his bedroom. "That's the plan," he mutters.

* * *

><p>The room's freezing, and there's a steady ache pooling between his shoulders. Sam shifts to his side, tries to curl under the quilt he managed to find in some storage closet, but his creaky joints protest, and apparently, any position other than flat on his back means he feels like he's being slowly suffocated. After a few minutes of wriggling, Sam gives up and gets out of bed. He should… probably get some warm milk. Or something. Or—better yet, watch something from Dean's collection of old Westerns. Always did put him to sleep.<p>

He manages to make it to the kitchen without tripping over his own feet, which is quite a feat considering how feverish he feels. He'd pop another Tylenol, but he's worried about liver failure on top of everything else—just how do you treat an illness that never goes away, anyway?

_by beating it to the finish line, obviously_.

"Yeah, I'll just get into a vat of boiling oil and get it over with," Sam mutters, opening the fridge. (He stops, considers that he knows exactly what that feels like, then decides he probably does prefer the fever.) There's an old carton of milk in the back that Sam doesn't dare touch, a mouldy sandwich and a case of beer, and—Sam's going to kill his brother, he really is. All the hugs and soliloquies aside, Dean can't go for a fucking food run?

He finally settles for draining a bottle of water and trying not to puke it all back up. He slumps over the kitchen table, and when he's finally easing into dozing off, somebody turns all the lights in the place on and shouts, "Sammy?"

Sam sits up quickly. His breath catches in his chest painfully, and then he's coughing, a knife-point where his sternum's supposed to be, sawing in and out. He's vaguely aware of Dean catching his shoulders and then trying to pat his back for some inexplicable reason, then the coughing turns into retching, and he mercifully blacks out.

When he comes to, they're still in the kitchen—on the floor, in fact. He's slumped against Dean and covered in vomit and there are faint splatters of blood fanned out on the floor in front of him, and Sam's so tired, please, he's so _goddamned tired_.

"I was really hoping that wouldn't happen tonight," Sam ventures after a moment of silence.

"God, Sam." Dean props him up against the kitchen table and bustles about, fetching a washcloth and thrusting it under the open tap in the sink. "Here's the plan, okay? You need something, you call me. You need water? I'll fetch it for you. Hell, you need to piss? I'll help! I'll even aim the damn—"

"_Dean_." Sam sighs. "I was doing _fine_. Just—more food, less surprises, okay?"

Dean crouches next to him, starts wiping at his mouth with the dripping washcloth. "What do you mean, more food? We got food."

Sam turns his face away, then grabs the cloth out of Dean's hand. "No, we don't."

"I checked, okay? I mean, it's not plenty, but enough to tide us over for a couple of—"

"Dean, _no_." Sam gets to his feet, clutching at the table, trying to slow his breathing. "When did you last check, anyway? A week ago? Because you can take a look in there now, Dean—there's nothing other than a couple of petri dishes!"

"… did we get Italian food?"

"Rotten food, Dean!" Sam waves a shaky arm. "Rotten food!"

"Look." Dean holds up his hands. "Maybe I've been skimping out on grocery shopping for a couple of days, I'm sorry. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm running things solo around here. What with—" He rubs at the flecks of vomit on his shirt. "—you being the way you are."

Sam's jaw drops. He bites back on another retort and collapses more than settles into a chair. "You're right," he says, feeling like vomiting again. "I'm—I'm sorry."

"Hey." Dean reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. "You got pretty big things to worry about, okay? How 'bout you clean up and get to bed, and I go to one of those 24x7 places and get something for us to eat, huh?"

_I'm not a child, Dean_, he wants to say, but what comes out is a miserable, "Okay,"—which probably doesn't help his case at all. Dean helps him to his feet, and they start their way back to his bedroom, Sam leaning on Dean.

"What's the time, Dean?" Sam asks after a moment.

"Six in the morning." Dean shakes his head. "Just flying by, innit?"

It's day outside, and Sam doesn't even know. He feels inexplicable tears clouding his vision. "Yeah," he manages around a lump in his throat, "it is."

They stop outside the bathroom. "You gonna be okay showering by yourself?"

Sam manages a watery smile. "Why, you wanna join me?"

Dean puts his hands up. "Hey. Anything you need, man."

"No, no. I'll be okay." Dean nods and turns to walk away, when Sam says, "Dean, wait."

"Yeah?"

"I can't—" _I can't do this. I don't know how to deal with myself, this, and take care of you. I can't even— _"—shower without my shampoo. It's in my bedroom."

Dean laughs, rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I bet." He ducks into Sam's bedroom.

Sam swallows more blood, closes his eyes.

**_Finis_**


End file.
